Free Dwelling by Thomas S. Flowers

Egyptian, a man with a dogs head wearing a skirt was bizarre enough, but the lady with the six arms and sharp teeth and blue skin was downright frightening.
    There were other pictures as well, symbols of things Bobby had a less understanding of than all the rest. His attention had been brought full circle, Luna was watching him with a playful smirk across her face, her green irises glowing beautifully in the morning sunlight, contrasting with her dark skin. Just then Bobby remembered noticing a dismal looking plant pot sitting on the window sill. It was a gnarled looking thing, some kind of plant with roots that fractured and split apart like a barren willow tree.
    “Should I even ask?” Bobby had said, finding his own sly smirk.
    Luna had grinned.
    His first encounter with Luna had been two months ago now. Two months; two changes; twice locked up behind the steel frame of the batting cage. The sun was disappearing now, well beyond the horizon. Bobby could feel the familiar panic setting hard in his heart. The celestial clock was cruelly ticking away— tick—tock—tick—tock . He had to keep moving. Passing Ed’s Gas Station, he crossed the street and then humped it over a set of railroad tracks that traversed all the way to Dallas before interchanging to Oklahoma, and from there, Kansas.
    From the looks of the weeds growing around the pumps and the boarded up windows, and the strangely deflated price of $.075 cents a gallon, he assumed the area had been abandoned for some time. Not far, not far , he thought, tossing himself through a thicket of blackberry bushes. The thorns tore at his skin, adding to the pain of his already heightened senses. A few paces ahead, he spotted a familiar large oak tree. While still moving, he craned his neck and gazed miserably at the deep, aggravated claw marks tattooed down its side. He shivered. For so long he’d ignored the problem and made up excuses. No—no—I just got drunk. Bad dreams mixed with bad booze and worse dumpster dives. No way is this real. I’m just a terrible and tragic drunk—poor homeless vet living on the streets instead of a warm bed. Warm bed…
    Luna had offered, the last two visits, she’d opened the door, kindly, without pity. But for reasons all his own, Bobby refused her offer. Maybe someday , he lied to himself. Luna had helped him realize his, as she called it, condition.
    “ I’m a rougarou, a fucking werewolf! Jesus-H-Christ…” Bobby had to give voice to the words in his head every now and again, just to believe the utter ridiculousness of it all. If the words were not enough, the pain sure helped him remember, and the blacking out, and the nightmarish memories that followed the next day. Maybe this would have been easier for Ricky. He was always into all that horror shit. But he’s dead—dead, and I’m not. Cosmic fucking blunder.
    So, yes, thanks to Luna, Bobby could no longer hide from the thing inside him, the monster, the beast, the wolf. She put the truth in front of him, now he would have to find some way to deal with it. Something better than an old, worn batting cage.
    Bobby came into a clearing. The moon was bright and overhead, as if some god-like being was illuminating its creation, calling for its supernatural creatures to come forth into the world. Off in the distance he could make out the modest, white two-story ramshackle home of Luna—he never asked her last name. Beside the home, some yards down a dirt path, the batting cage shone like New Jerusalem coming down from heaven.
    Bobby ran. His skin was beginning to itch…and then burn. Sweat rolled off him in droves. His head felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. His breath came in deep, languorous growls. The pain came in lightning bolts coursing through his veins.
    Bobby ran faster.
    Is Luna there? I can’t see her…Where…? Where…?
    Bobby kept running. His feet screamed with each bounding step. His shoes, pants, and shirt felt tight. His skin broke open,